Two Ships
by AnxietyGrrl
Summary: Season 7 fic (specifically 7x06 and 7x07). Jon and Dany, before and after. Two sea voyages, two scenes.
1. Eastwatch to Dragonstone

"Am I disturbing you?" She found him hunched over in front of the small writing desk in the corner of the cabin, frowning.

"No, of course not." He looked up, and sighed. She felt the corner of her mouth quirk. "I'm writing Sansa."

"I see." Other than his pained expression, he looked much better. His skin had regained its color, and his voice had lost its scratch. Almost as if nothing had happened at all. She supposed-knew-he'd been through worse...but she could still see it if she closed her eyes.

"I've put her in a difficult position. She doesn't deserve it."

Daenerys sat on the sea chest at the foot of his bed, and he turned in his chair, so that their knees were nearly touching. "Will the northern lords follow her lead?"

"Aye, they might. If she can convince them it's for their survival, maybe she can hold them together. Or, they'll start fighting amongst themselves, and…" He made a face as if his head ached. "I hate politics."

She grinned. "You're very bad at it."

"Noticed that, have you?"

"It's one of many things I've noticed about you, yes."

He looked down shyly, and she was annoyed at the way her chest fluttered in response. Who was this silly girl who had emerged on this damnable boat?

"What can we do to make it easier for her? I don't want to get off on the wrong foot with the Lady of Winterfell." _I want your sister to like me_, she heard the silly girl say, and she wished she could pitch her overboard.

"I've been thinking about that, actually." He paused as if he expected her to tease him, and continued when he saw she was listening attentively. "When Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon, he became Warden of the North." He smiled. "As you know. And ever since then, every Warden of the North has been a Stark. Now I've bent the knee."

"And now you'll be Warden of the North." Her brow creased as she began to follow his line of thought.

"But...I'm not a Stark."

She shook her head dismissively. "That doesn't matter."

"It might."

"They chose you. They named you their King."

"They did, and some of them are probably regretting it now."

She felt offended on his behalf. "Then they're fools. If the Warden of the North has to be a Stark, then I'll make you a Stark," she declared. At his sad smile, she added, "...If you wish."

"There was a time that's all I would've wished. Now… I don't need it. Thank you, though."

She sighed, frustrated. "So what are you suggesting?"

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. And if I'm not a Stark, technically I can't be Lord of Winterfell. And if I'm no longer the King in the North-"

"Ridiculous." She stood up. "We're going in circles! What am I doing any of this for if I can't change stupid rules? If a bastard can be a king, why can't-"

"Why can't a woman be Warden of the North?"

She stopped short. "You would name Sansa?"

He rose from his seat; how quickly she'd grown used to standing eye to eye. "No. You would."

"...And the Northern houses would support her?"

"Some of them would have preferred her to me all along."

"Have you written to her about this?"

He shook his head. "Like I said, it's just something I've been thinking. Might be better to step aside than be set aside, if it comes to that."

She nodded. "It's...not bad."

He laughed, as much as he ever did, that soft exhalation and smiling eyes. "Thank you, my queen."

She stood up straighter and raised her chin. "_If_ it comes to that."

"All right," he agreed.

When the pause between them grew too heavy, she asked him, "What would you do?" She saw his confusion, and clarified, "If you weren't a King, or a Warden, or a Lord…?"

"Same as always," he said. "Whatever I had to. For my people. And for you."

She took note of the order of that statement, and admired him for it. Perhaps their parting was due. She was finding too many things to admire in him; the list was becoming absurd.

"Would you go North again?"

"I'll go where the war is."

"You'll go where your Queen sends you, you mean."

"She'll send me where I'm needed."

_Will I?_ She wondered. _Will I send you off into the terror, over and over, when every day that passes I need you more by my side? _

"Yes. Well. I'll leave you to your letter." At the cabin door, she turned. "After the parlay, you'll return to Winterfell?"

"I've been away too long. You'll go back to Dragonstone?"

"For now."

"You're assuming we'll survive the parlay."

"Please, with all that we've survived, Cersei Lannister of all things isn't going to be what finally kills us." How quickly they'd become _we _and _us_ to her.

"Probably not."

The silly girl clutched the bulkhead as he fixed her with an unmistakably yearning look. "Jon…" she said—gods, her throat felt tight; had she ever said it before? She swallowed. "I'll see you at supper."

_Maybe you'll be what finally kills me._


	2. Dragonstone to White Harbor

She heard him stirring behind her, and the dark clouds of her thoughts parted for the sound of his voice. "Daenerys?"

"I didn't know it was possible to be so cold." It wouldn't leave her. Even seated on the decking by the brazier, under the shelter of his enormous fur cloak, she felt it still.

"You get used to it."

"I don't want to get used to it." He sat before her, half-dressed in leathers, half-wrapped in woolen blankets. She wanted to get used to that; feared she already was.

"I'd rather you didn't have to. But none of us have the choice now."

"I know."

"Might help if you put some clothes on." There was a light in his eyes that lifted her spirits, knowing she'd struck the spark.

"I don't want to do that, either." She extended one leg out from under the cloak and onto his lap. He lifted it and moved toward her until they were nicely entangled, then lowered his head to kiss her bent knee.

"Stubborn."

"_I'm_ stubborn?"

"Aye, you are," he declared, his hand upon her calf. "Why, d'you think I am?"

"_Aye_," she repeated, and won a laugh. She reached out and curled her fingers in his hair. "I like your smile, Jon Snow."

He covered her hand with his and turned his face into her palm. "It's yours."

They were two days out of Dragonstone, and the winds were not in their favor. She knew she should be wishing for speed, but selfishly she was grateful for this reprieve before they faced what awaited them at landfall. Men had offered her riches, and cities, and glory; now her heart was turning upside down for a smile.

"What were you thinking about?" His thumb stroked the tender skin of her wrist.

"Viserion." She closed her eyes tight. "I see him falling. I hear how he screamed."

"I'm so sorry."

"I know you are," she assured him gently. "You don't have to say it every time."

"I'm sorry you carry it with you that way, I mean. I know how that is."

"Pain endures," she said.

"It does," he agreed. "But we can't let it be the only thing that does."

She cocked her head at him. "And when did you become a poet?"

"Just yesterday, I think," and she laughed as he kissed her.

Her dark thoughts from earlier crept back, even in the sanctuary of his embrace. "It isn't only the grief. It's what it means for what's to come." She took a deep breath, and confessed, "I'm terrified we'll lose."

"That only means you're smart."

"You don't understand. I don't doubt myself. I _can't_."

"Doubting the outcome isn't doubting yourself." She started to argue, but he cut her off. "If it helps, I have faith in you. Absolutely. With plenty to spare."

She pressed her lips together and looked upward to refuse a tear, then said in mock annoyance, "That's almost more pressure, actually."

He put on a sober expression. "Beg pardon, Your Grace." She laughed and smoothed the counterfeit furrow from his brow.

"You're _happy_," she said with wonder.

"I am. Right now, I am." He inched closer to her, and she clasped her hands around his neck. "Mad, isn't it?"

She nodded slowly. "Very."

"Beric Dondarrion told me I'd have little joy in this life, because I belong to the Lord of Light now."

She rolled her eyes. "Hang the Lord of Light. You don't belong to anyone but yourself."

He wove one of her loose braids around his fingers. "I'm not sure that's true."

She captured his mouth, and he grasped her waist and drew her on top of him as he laid back onto the bare planks. They found a little joy in each other, the ship rolling and creaking under their bodies.

The winds turned, and they were to reach White Harbor the next day.

Daenerys paced the forecastle, gloves and cloak and hood, and still her skin stinging. She saw him approaching, every inch a lord, and smiled thinking of what had happened under that very cloak early that morning.

He stood beside her at the rail, and briefly placed his hand atop hers.

"I just spoke to Tyrion. He's in a strange mood."

"Hm."

"D'you think he knows?"

"Oh, I'm certain he does."

He frowned. "Is that a problem?"

"Everything's a problem," she grumbled, which made him smile despite the topic at hand. "I'll talk to him." After a few minutes of easy quiet, she said, "You'll be glad to see Winterfell again."

"I will. It's been too long." He turned to her. "I'll be glad for you to see it, too."

"Not nervous about my reception?"

"A little," he admitted. "But I want to show you my home."

"I'm glad you had that. A home, a family. I never did, not really. There was a house in Pentos, when I was a little girl, that may have been the closest, but I scarcely remember it. Once I hoped Dragonstone would feel like home, but then…"

"Dragonstone's grim," he said.

She laughed. "It is a bit severe, isn't it?"

"Winterfell's not grand," he said. "It's not splendid like they say about the Eyrie or Sunspear. But it's ancient; it's warm and it's strong. We'll have to hope that's enough."

She cast him a sidelong glance. "I'm sure it's very beautiful in its own way."

"The godswood," he nodded, too humble to catch her meaning, "that's beautiful." He turned toward her, put his hand over hers again, and rested it there this time. "Have you ever seen a weirwood tree?"

"No."

"The bark is smooth and pale as bone. The branches twisted. The leaves are blood red all year round." He let out a short laugh. "Sounds horrible, I know. It's not, though. When you stand under it... I don't know if any gods are there. But it's...peaceful."

"I'd like to see that," she said softly.

His gaze was weighted with something she could not name, and it thrilled her. "I'd like to show you."

"In the morning," she said, with a glance to the dimming horizon, "We're back at war."

"We are."

"You told me once that you'd go where you were needed."

"Aye, wherever you sent."

"Then come with me now." She took him by the hand. "The war isn't here tonight."


End file.
